Lord of War
by AfroJedii
Summary: AU. Left in the wake of the second coming of the Dark Lord, Harry Potter emerges from Azkaban and sets forth events that will change both the wizard and muggle world forever.
1. The Whispers

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Lord of War**

Genre: Action/Romance  
Spoiler: Books 1 - 5  
Rating: M for Mature (17+)  
Beta: whatareyouevensaying

**Chapter 1 – The Whispers**

* * *

**Azkaban Prison**  
October 31, 2000

_There are many small, nearly soundless, voices flooding my skull. They all whisper tall tales of heroes and villains and their great deeds. Not a single voice louder than the others, making it hard to distinguish between their words. The voices vary between male and female, young and old, and wise and foolish. But one thing's for sure, they definitely know what they're talking about._

_Nearly five years I've been rotting away in this hell on Earth dubbed Azkaban. Nearly five years since I was convicted of a crime I never committed. Nearly five years since the whispers began._

_This prison however, is very unique. In the entire wizarding world only Azkaban Prison employs the darkest creatures known to man; Dementors. They feed and live off of your very thoughts, taking pleasure in devouring every happy thought they can feel. But only the truly wicked and deranged of wizards and witches reside in Azkaban._

_Lucky me._

_Most would be long dead by now. My cell receives more special attention than any other. The Dementors are very fond of me, it seems. There are people here who receive only a fraction of my torment, yet they're reduced to wailing zombies after every Dementor patrol. But I have never been considered normal, not even before my imprisonment._

_Dementors feed from any cheerful memories the host may have, but over the years I've learned to do what would be considered impossible by most wizards._

_I've become a self-taught adept in the mind art of Occlumency. At least, in my own opinion.'_

_You show me a wizard who could lock his mind to the abominations we call Dementors. I wonder how I'd stack up against a true, trained, Occlumens. After five long years of practice and application in this pit, even hearing these voices seems like a level trade._

_I've been surviving in Azkaban the only way I know how; pure instinct. The magic that flows beneath my skin feels almost alive and sentient._

_In the beginning, the wayward magic within often overwhelmed me. I could feel the distinct pain of my body changing under the torrents of my magic. Being locked in this cell only prolonged the pain, as any errant magic was leeched from my body. Since then, I've never feel such contentment with pain. We've become good friends._

_Whatever happened to me during those few months only Merlin knows. After surviving through that phase in the beginning my mind and body became numb and that's when the whispers began._

_I was told once -by someone I considered family- that when a wizard is in their animal's form, the mental pain of a Dementor's leeching would lessen. Well unfortunately, we all can't be an animagi. All I've had was my wit._

_How does a non-animagus expect to ever cope with life in Azkaban? Simple. You have to embrace your primitive side, the side without rules or boundaries: the animal side. You take the pain and make it your own. Once you pass a certain point the pain is only a numb reminder of a situation you've lost control of. The mind is then able to function and process in spite of it. It's the deepest meditation I could ever accomplish –if you could even call it that._

_Then, and only, then are you set free. Only then not even a Dementor could hurt you. It's only after I've lost everything that I've been able to do anything._

_Hmm. . . Meditation, takes away the hurt, leaves the pain._

_Five years has changed me. There's no doubt about that. I guess life in prison would do that to anyone. No longer am I the innocent, bright eyed, impressionable kid who looked forward to summers with the Weasleys. That life seems so long ago. This world has stripped me of my innocence. That's all going to change today._

The voices have been growing louder each passing day. Something big, something from the outside world, seems to be coming to a head. Whispers of Voldemort run rampant in the stream of voices.

The magic suppressing runes on either side of my cell are growing brighter to maintain suction of my magic as is pulsates wildly. I can feel the blood course through my veins with each deafening heartbeat in my chest.

Only now do I realize the emptiness of the prison. This hollow feeling I have because of the Dementors absence disturbs me._ 'Who would've ever thought I'd grow as fond of them as they were of me?'_

Finally, through the stupor that was my conscious, an airy voice spoke in the absence of the all the others. The voice sounded almost ethereal and pleasantly feminine. "He's approaches, my child. Tonight your destiny shall change course."

_Voldemort's coming. I'll be waiting._

* * *

The storm raged violently outside the walls of Azkaban Prison. The sleek black granite prison stood unfazed and undamaged by the fury of the surrounding sea. Jagged rocks and steep cliffs adorned the foreboding place like a house of Hades. Magic could literally be felt in the air due to the many wards and runes both in and around the prison itself.

From a distance, if someone were looking, there could be seen many small wooden ships and crafts approaching from the east. The sails were all torn and withered down to damaged wood and iron, no doubt from the rough seas. Each rocked dangerously from side to side and yet somehow managed to stay afloat. As the distance between the island and the boats decreased, the wards and magic permeating the island prison began to fall, and fall fast.

The Dark Lord Voldemort himself apparated onto the island as the last ward fell. He appeared visibly anxious as he looked forward to what lay ahead. So many loyal followers would be freed this day, as well as the fall of his greatest enemy, Harry James Potter.

Like most of the wizarding world, Voldemort was taken aback by the news of Potter's imprisonment. It was once a well conceived notion that Albus Dumbledore's influence knew no bounds. Apparently he was proven wrong along with the rest of magical Britain.

The world seemed to believe Potter killed the Diggory boy on the fateful night of Voldemort's second coming. After Potter escaped through the skin of his teeth that night, he was exceedingly irate with the entire situation. So when, with no influence of his own, talk of Harry going dark began to spread like wildfire, Voldemort became buoyant.

Add that to the boy's ever growing raw magical talent, and sudden knowledge of material far beyond his years, you'd have a recipe for disaster.

Sentenced without trial, Harry's imprisonment was swift. Voldemort himself couldn't have planned it better himself. With Harry Potter out of the picture he only had to maneuver around the old coot, Albus Dumbledore. But, the old man's time was greatly tied with trying to pardon his young protégé.

In fact, it was the great efforts Dumbledore went through to achieve the pardon that led to Voldemort's belief that the boy served some far greater purpose to the war then he originally assumed.

Harry Potter was not a simple pawn in this game of conquests like so many others under Dumbledore's and Voldemort's stead. No, the boy was key to something important. It's the only reason to Dumbledore overlooking most of the war in lieu of his pardoning efforts.

Voldemort grinned smugly. It was time to nip this weed in the bud before things became complicated.

"My Lord, the Dementors have withdrawn to the South side of the island. Everything is going according to plan."

Voldemort nodded. "Take half of the recruits and form them along the beach. I want all flyers to remain concealed and airborne until I give the signal. The remaining recruits are to come with me while you and the elites remain on standby and ready for extraction. Expect heavy resistance."

The beautiful brunette bowed once before she turned to carry out her orders.

"Be mindful of the price of failure, Bellatrix," Voldemort warned.

Bellatrix assumed the authority over the elite dark wizards and prepared for the coming battle. Everyone knew the prison break was going to involve bloodshed and deaths on both sides once the Ministry and Order arrived on scene. Invading Azkaban in itself was a very risky move, given its natural defenses, but when one factored in the current climate of the war the invasion became vastly more complex.

Over the last few years many wizards had begun to take up arms and join different sides of the war. The two leading factions remained the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix. Neither faction had a clear advantage over the other in either area, combat or political.

The war had already begun to spread all over Europe, and various parts of Southeast Asia, Central America, and the Middle East. The two biggest political figures were Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Granger for various reasons. It was under their flags of Death Eater and Order of the Phoenix, respectively, which many chose to join.

Looking back Bellatrix could see Voldemort had already disappeared beyond the dark void that was the entrance into the prison. Those remaining outside all wore their typical death eater attire of silk black combat robes and white skull masks; except her.

Reading their body language, she could tell most where anxious. Many kept throwing glances back towards the prison, awaited to escort their comrades to safety.

No sooner after she began assessing her charges did Bellatrix and others begin to hear and see the telltale sounds of mass apparations. As she watched the individual whips of light and smoke settle into Ministry and Order personnel, she signaled for the recruits to attack.

A vibrant light show followed quickly after as spells were traded in rapid succession. The death eater recruits did their part in slightly thinning out the opposition, though Bellatrix hated that most used barely lethal spells. However, what they lacked in viciousness they made up for in power and numbers.

The Order, surprisingly, were casting equally lethal curses and hexes against their enemies. After four minutes most of the recruits were stunned, bound, and apparated away to holding cells. The unseasoned purebloods where not conditioned for prolonged battles.

Ministry battle medics portkeyed fallen allies off of the battlefield and no doubt back to St. Mungo's Magical Hospital.

Suddenly, Bellatrix's left forearm became burning hot, but she managed to school her face during the pain. It was the call of the Death Eater's Dark Mark, and Voldemort's signal.

In the ominous stormy gray sky fell hundreds of aerial Death Eaters on their brooms. From the air, the Death Eaters had vantage point and used this to their advantage smartly. Unlike the unseasoned lot before, this was a more battle-hardened horde. Their deadly spells rained from the sky with distinctive viciousness. Blood sprayed the wet rocks as many Order and Ministry combatants were caught unawares.

Only once they employed stronger defenses, casting many area shields, did they barely begin to overcome the overwhelming Death Eater aerial strike. The azure and silvery gleaming domes took the brunt of the spells as they began to recuperate their forces.

From her view atop of a particularly steep cliff Bellatrix could hear the resounding gruff voice of ex-Auror Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody barking out orders to both Ministry and Order members alike. He was a grizzled old man who's seen his fair share of war, and he certainly knew how to manipulate a battlefield. His wild gray hair and magical eyeball in his right eye-socket both whipped about every which way as he fired off one curse after another at mystifying speeds.

"You five," she pointed to the five nearest to her out of the thirty or so elites, "I want you lot to stay close to me at all time. Destroy any enemy who comes near us. Our target is Mad-Eye Moody; everyone else is only an obstacle. So, unless Dumbledore himself shows up, its full speed ahead, understood?"

"Understood," they chorused.

"The rest of you know what to do. Await the arrival of our comrades."

Bellatrix's long ebony hair flowed around her heart shaped face with the current of the wind. Her piercing purple eyes, dark makeup, and rosy lips made her appear as some sort of dark angel. She was the embodiment of true pureblood beauty and viciousness to many purebloods. So it was quite the thing to say her spells are more treacherous than her appearance was gorgeous.

"AVADA KEDAVRA." And so it was, the first of more than a dozen Aurors died at the end of Bellatrix Lestrange's wand.

* * *

Voldemort made his way down a dank dark corridor as many of his death eaters ran around breaking out their imprisoned friends. Others were huddling them into a large group to be portkeyed out.

"My Lord, ally prisoners are all present or accounted for."

"See to it that they make it to the extraction team. Once they're taken care of have our people withdraw to HQ," ordered Voldemort.

There were many death eater prisoners who looked more dead than alive. Their haunted faces and thin, malnourished bodies made them appear almost skeletal. Their eyes seem vacant and lost, as if they were still under influence of the Dementors. A heavy smell of feces and urine saturated the air around them making it nearly unbearable to withstand being near them.

'Pathetic,' thought the Dark Lord.

"My Lord," a young man's voice shouted as he ran toward the Voldemort out of breath. "I've found the inmate charter, my lord."

Voldemort snatched the said charter from the boy and examined the parchment. Hundred of names filled the pages along with each prisoner's age and sentence. He smiled as he read the name of Harry James Potter. Unsheathing his wand he tapped the boys name once and the parchment filled in displaying the boys dossier.

Name: Harry James Potter  
Alias: The-Boy-Who-Lived  
Born: July 31, 1980  
Mother: Lillian Rose Potter (Deceased)  
Father: James Ambrose Potter (Deceased)  
Martial Status: Single (Heir – Potter)  
Charge: First Degree Murder  
Sentence: June 4, 2010 (15 years)

The photo at the top of the information showed an apathetic 15-year-old Harry Potter. The boy's face was unreadable, no doubt from closing himself off within because of the betrayal he must have felt from the wizarding world and his friends.

"You've done an excellent job. You will be rewarded properly." The boy, face covered by the white skill mask, chest swelled with pride. It wasn't everyday a death eater was flattered by the snake face Dark Lord.

"Fallback to the island and apparate out," Voldemort turned back to address the death eaters that were readying for extraction, "I want you all-"

Voldemort was shocked to find the large area in the corridor that was once filled with his death eaters was now vacant. The copperish metallic smell of blood assaulted his nose not a moment after and his wand instantly appeared in his hand.

Something had gone eerily wrong the last few minutes. He'd turned his back for no more than a few minutes and now thirty and some odd number of death eater suddenly disappeared and apparently killed. _'All without a sound?'_ he thought, _'Is it even possible?'_

"Hmm. . ." Someone's voice hummed gruffly throughout the corridor. The sound bounced off the walls hiding the location of the man. "It's been too long. You look healthier than the last time we parted ways, Tom."

The lone death eater grew nervous. Stuck in a passageway that looked like it belonged in hell, alongside the Dark Lord and some Azkaban maniac made him very queasy. "My Lord, I-"

The death eater was silencio'ed with a simple wave of the Dark Lords wand. The silenced death eater unconsciously drifted closer towards his master in a vain attempt to get away from the large thick shadows that covered the walls and ceiling.

The dark voice chuckled, his voice resounding in all directions. Voldemort grew tired of the theatrics and lit the passage with blue flames that was cool to the touch. The shadows in the immediate area disappeared but there was still no sign of the man who dared taunt Voldemort.

"I'm insulted, Tom. You came with only a handful these pathetic wizards knowing I'd somewhere in here. You didn't expect me to lose my touch, now did ya?" The man chuckled again as Voldemort body tensed and his jaws tightened.

"Who in Merlin's name do you think you are? You, who dare call me by that name, will never see the light of day! Accio!" Nothing happened, but Voldemort didn't expect it to be that easy. He cast many silent 'Serpensortia' spells into the shadows. With a few rapid hisses the snakes began to silently search for the man.

"Some things never change," the unknown man responded.

To both Voldemort and the death eater's amazement they heard similar hisses from the shadows. The death eater, unaware of his master's snake summoning, was wrapped tightly by dozens of poisonous snakes and bit repeatedly. The young man's screams of anguish filled the corridor as the sounds of blood gurgling in his throat could be heard.

Voldemort, in a rare display of mercy, ended the young death eater's life with a swift killing curse.

"Harry Potter," The Dark Lord all but hissed, "You've grown, boy. Grown more foolish, that is. I'll have your head for this."

"Right in one," Harry said coolly,"Quite the master of deduction you are."

Stepping out of the shadows was a tall, lithe figure. The mane of hair on his face was longer and messier than ever before. He had a full unshaven beard and mustache that appeared tangled. Oddly, his face was not hollow and dry like most Azkaban inmates, but rater strong and defined. His body was also quite toned and appeared very flexible. He wore a tight torn and grimy t-shirt with brownish cargo pants and tattered black boots.

The most striking of all of this man's features were his vivid eyes. His eyes literally glowed like two lit intense green orbs. The thick layers of shadows covering half the man's face only enhanced his eyes intensity.

"Potter?" Voldemort asked, bewildered. This was not the annoying boy whom he remembered from almost five years ago. This was an entirely different Harry Potter.

"We've established that fact already." Harry grinned and then hissed. Voldemort didn't bother to turn around as the snakes, ordered by Harry, began to move his way with intent to kill. Before they even got within ten feet they crumbled to dust. Such tactics would not work on a wizard of Voldemort's caliber.

"You really have grown. And I see you are now willing to do what is necessary to achieve your goals."

"Flattery, Voldemort, is not your style." Harry's face was unreadable even to an mast of Legilimency such as Voldemort. The young man's body language gave absolutely nothing away.

Still, Voldemort was not impressed. "So I assume you'll want to return to your post as the imperative pawn under the old man's thumb, correct?"

Harry slipped back into the shadows of the corridor. Voldemort could not believe how insanely easy Harry made it all look. Once Harry slipped back into the shadows it was as if he was completely gone. No sound of his breathing or footstep could be heard. The only reminder of him ever being there was that lingering wretched smell of musk and blood from both himself and the now dead death eaters.

"I want something that's been so elusive to a guy like me. People tend die by simply being around me. If you send anyone after me they'll die too. Believe me; you don't want to test me."

Voldemort could now sense the rich magical energy of Albus Dumbledore quickly approaching his position. It seemed that Harry sensed Dumbledore before him somehow.

"I just want to be left alone." Harry said, and he was gone. If he'd apparated out, silently, then Voldemort suspected he was going to have to seriously re-evaluate the boy's skills.

Albus Dumbledore came rounding around the corridor where Voldemort and the lone death eater's corpse lay. The old man assessed the scene before him before be met Tom Riddle's blazing red eyes.

"Interesting," Voldemort whispered. Thick black billowing smoke raised to envelope the Dark Lord and in the blink of an eye he was gone.

"Albus there are dozens of fresh corpses in this room!" Minerva McGonigal shrieked and nearly vomited up her most recent meal as she laid sight on the massacred bodies of the Death Eaters. They all had smooth cut slits to across their throats.

Albus viewed the bodies unflinchingly, though his stomach churned ominously when he coupled the sight with his rampant thoughts. Many scenarios could explain what had happened on this day. But there was only one he knew, instinctively, to be true.

The tall black Auror known as Kingsley Shacklebolt approached Dumbledore wearily. "There's no sign of Harry Potter, Albus. The boy is gone."

"I know," said Dumbledore, much to the shock of the people surrounding him.

It seemed that that day would mark the next chapter of the war, the war so many have sacrificed their lives to see end, a war that was destined to continue for years to come.

"Merlin help us all."

* * *

**Author's Commentary**

* * *

And so we have the first chapter of my 2nd fic. Hope at least some of you enjoyed it. If you hate it or think I should change something, please let me know. This is sort of my WTF fic. I'm trying to do things in this fic that's not done often, not done enough, or not done right. So in short, I'll be doing allot of things. lol

Harry Potter in this story is very different from cannon, of course. He will definitely be OOC for most of the story. Harry will be darker and more cynical then witnessed cannon. He won't be evil or good, but rather both, and neither. His response to different things will vary upon the situation. As an American, I do not know all of the jargan that a Brit would use. I will try my best to emulate their tongue when nessasary. That being said, please note however, that Harry Potter will look, sound, and feel allot like Vin Deisel in post-Hogwarts scenes, and that is my intention. There will be an explanation of Harry's use of American tongue, just a few chapters from here. I hope it dosn't come off as some paper-thin excuse though!

And big thanks to my beta, whatareyouevensaying, who has offered to help me out. Without your help the story would still be an English travesty! Thanks allot for your time and efforts.

-Afro


	2. Hallowed Nights

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Lord of War **

**Chapter 2 - Hallowed Nights**

* * *

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland  
**October 31st, 1994

Barty Crouch moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Harry thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin that had not been there at the Quidditch World Cup.

"The first task is designed to test your daring," he told Harry, Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor, "so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard. . . very important."

"The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges."

"The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests."

Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore. "I think that's all, is it, Albus?"

"I think so," said Dumbledore, who was looking at Mr. Crouch with mild concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"

"No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry," said Mr. Crouch. "It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment... I've left young Weatherby in charge... Very enthusiastic...a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told..."

"You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?" said Dumbledore.

"Come on, Barty, I'm staying!" said Bagman brightly. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!"

"I think not, Ludo," said Crouch with a touch of his old impatience.

"Professor Karkaroff - Madame Maxime - a nightcap?" said Dumbledore. But Madame Maxime had already put her arm around Fleur's shoulders and was leading her swiftly out of the room. Harry could hear them both talking very fast in French as they went off into the Great Hall. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they, too, exited, though in silence.

"Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed," said Dumbledore, smiling at both of them. "I am sure Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise."

Harry glanced at Cedric, who nodded, and they left together. Once he entered the Great Hall however, he was beckoned by the gruff voice he'd come to know as Mad Eye Moody's.

"Potter. A word, if you will." Mad Eye motioned to Harry with a nod. A small shrug to Cedric Diggory and they parted ways. Harry walked the now silent halls of Hogwarts with the eccentric Dark Arts professor. They soon arrived at the Moody's Spartan office at the end of the DADA classroom.

"Potter, how do you feel about your participation in this tournament? Frightening, I would imagine."

"I'm more worried about what people are going to make of all this. They're all going to think I submitted my name somehow," Harry said, remembering the dark look he got from his best mate when his name emerged from the goblet. "There's no way I can explain all this properly, which only makes this whole sodding situation that more complicated!"

Realizing what he had just said, in front of a professor no less, made him flinch a bit. "Er- sorry about that, Professor."

Moody smiled in amusement. "Quite alright, lad. It must be a lot to take in considering you'll be competing in this tournament barely on a fourth year education. Experience, in many of life's challenges, is everything."

Harry could only nod morbidly in agreement. He had only recently accepted the fact that he was obligated to compete in the tournament. Now, on top of that, he was made to realize just how ill prepared he was in comparison to the other champions. The other three champions had at least two more years of knowledge and experience to draw from. Harry only had a couple run-ins with a pretentious Dark Lord and a rather lucky encounter with a few hundred Dementors months before.

"The reason I've brought you here was not tread on the obviously delicate situation, but rather offer a way to remedy your inexperience."

Harry was curious. "But, sir, Mr. Crouch said to receive no help from the staff."

"So you realize the level of trust I am offering you, eh, Potter? I never planned on sticking around as the permanent DADA professor, and Albus understands that. While I could care less about losing this job, I rather we kept this between ourselves. After all, we both know you of all people would find a thorough training regimen most beneficial." Moody fixed Harry with a hard look, both eyes locked.

Harry understood Moody clearly. He would need this training if he was to ever survive another encounter with the Dark Lord, which, with his track record so far, was more than likely. Following school rules was never Harry's cup of tea either. He understood that rules were meant to be bent, even broken, if things had to done.

"Why now?" Harry asked. "I was never offered any help before? Is this tournament really so dangerous that Dumbledore fears I might die or something?"

"Dumbledore has nothing to do with this, boy. This offer comes directly from me and no other. And if you accept, it will remain that way."

Thinking about it, it was not a bad idea at all. He would be learning from an ex-Auror, and a very renowned one to boot. But his immediate concern was the tournament, of course. This would help him immensely, leveling the playing field between him and the other champions.

His friends would have to be kept in the dark which he figured was also a good idea. No need to worry Hermione with his training, or be bombarded with questions of his progress. Ron... Well Ron would probably be more jealous then concerned; or relieved that he's not a part of it, if the training proved to more than he could handle.

"What do I have to lose?" Harry stated rather than asked.

"What indeed, Mr. Potter." Mad Eye Moody grinned wickedly, satisfaction oozing from him, obviously pleased Harry was going along with his plans. "Before we continue however, we must form a wizard's oath that whatever is said or done within this room stays between just us, unless we specifically state otherwise, agreed?"

Harry nodded his approval, and a within a minute their oaths were confirmed with and smooth flash of ambient magic.

"Now that that's settled, I would like to show you something." Reaching inside his long dark cloak Moody pulled out a familiar looking small golden hour-glass. "What do you know of time-turners, Harry?"

Looking dumbfounded for a moment, surprised by seeing another time turner so soon, he thought back on what he knew. It was just last term when he and Hermione used one to save both Sirius and Buckbeak. He was beginning to wonder if the rarity of the item was overstated.

"A friend of mine, Hermione Granger, used one last school year to manage her extra classes." Seeing Moody's calculating look he continued hastily, "With both Professor Dumbledore and McGonagall's permission, of course."

"Truly an ambitious young witch, to use such an item for something so... uninteresting as extra classes," Moody said.

Harry shook his head. "You don't know Hermione," he said with a small smile.

"Well that saves me from having to explain things to you. Needless to say, this is an item not to be used trivially. But, like I said, your situation calls for drastic measures, eh?"

"With the first task less than a month away we are going to have to use this wisely. And if we do this just right we can squeeze in about a week for every day. That should give us. . . Somewhere around half a year between now and November twenty fourth," said Moody.

Half a year! Bugger it all! "People will notice if I disappear for almost a month. How could that possibly work?"

"At the end of each week we will exit the time loop and go through the day for just that reason. Once you've done that you're free to re-enter the loop until the next day, real-time. And if anything should go wrong, or if any of your friends begin asking questions I'll sort it out. Your only concern should be on your training." Moody answered.

Well then. "Where am I going to train? I don't imagine we'd be exactly inconspicuous in a classroom, will we?"

Moody dug another object from within his coat pocket, this one a bit larger. With a flourish of his wand the object enlarged into a large chest, as tall as Harry's waist. Walking around the chest, Harry sized it up.

"What's this then?" he asked.

"This is a wizard's chest, like the one I have over there," he said pointing to the other, darker, ancient looking chest. "Inside there are a dozen bedrooms, and just as many training rooms. It's stocked with all training material I thought you might be able to use.

It was Harry's turn to look at Moody a little calculatingly. "So you must have figured I would accept your training then. I mean, all of this must have cost a fortune. What if I would have refused?"

"If there's one thing I'm good at, Potter, it's my ability to judge people. I've been watching you sinse I arrived here. What I saw was not what I had expected. Forgive me for assuming, but I once believe you would be nothing but a spoiled child." Harry looked unimpressed with those words, but allowed the old man to continue. "However once I arrived I quickly realized it was just the opposite. You see, Dumbledore filled me on minor detail of your life, such as your situation with your Muggle relatives. Knowing that, combined with the way you carried yourself, as if the world itself was on your shoulders, I knew I couldn't have been more wrong. You have a great sense of humility that most children your age simply don't have. It took me only a week to get a good feel of your character. It was then that I knew, given the right reasons, you would accept this training, if only to better yourself to protect those you care about. When your name came out of the Goblet, well, I figured sooner was better than later."

Harry remained silent. His life sounded like a tragedy coming from the old man. He never thought he could be read so easily, not that he was being subtle, or anything. He disliked the fact that yet another person assumed his life was dandy because of his fame, and he definitely disliked the fact that someone, even a Professor, was more privy to his psychological standing than he himself was. Something about that seeming too disconcerting.

"You make it sound as if I'm someone special." Harry joked lamely.

"Are you not? First person to ever survive a killing curse; surviving basilisk poison; one of the two known living Parslemouths; and repelling over a hundred Dementors with a single patronous charm. Are you not special, Harry?"

His jaws tightened, not willing to answer that question. Moody simply did not understand. "So when will this start?" he inquired.

Moody only smiled knowingly at the blatant change of subjects. "Tonight, if you're willing."

"Tonight? You want to start tonight? Don't I need to . . . I dunno, prepare or something?"

Moody shook his head. "No. Come as you are, lad. We could get in a couple days before breakfast."

"Not to worry. First day is only an assessment of where we should begin, and you can rest after."

Not seeing any fault in Moody's logic, he followed the Dark Arts Professor down into the trunk. What he found within was not quite what he expected.

Unlike Moody's Spartan office the trunk was fully furnished, and resembled, what he could only assume, was a pureblood sort of layout. Thought the overall theme was much brighter than what he witnessed from the Slytherin's dungeon his second year. There were copious amounts of red, gold, brown, and silver decorations. Everything looked elegant and expensive, yet simple enough to actually seem useable, rather than for show.

"Magic truly is a great, innit." Harry was marveled by the size of the place in spite of being in such a small trunk.

"Follow me, Potter."

Walking down a large stone corridor Harry was surprised to hear other people coming from the opposite end. Looking around Moody he could see another Moody coming towards them, his wooden leg clanking along just like to one in front of him. Harry staggered a bit when a twin copy of himself trudged along behind the other Moody with a heavy scowl plastered on his face.

Looking closer, Harry 1 could see that nearly the entire right side of his copy's, Harry 2, face was bruised and pinkish. Harry 2 was also clutching his left arm, apparently wounded.

"Bloody wanker," Harry 2 nodded towards Moody 2, "Watch out for his Bombarda hex, it's something wicked."

Harry 1 gulped, "Er- sure. Will do."

Harry 2 sighed, "No, you won't." And he continued behind Moody 2.

Once the original pair reached a large wooden door they proceeded inside were they stood in huge room the size of a Quiddich Pitch, it's walls decorated with various sorts of magical training devices, many of which Harry never seen before. There were large windows high along the walls which were enchanted to bear a bright midday sun, shining the training room with its golden rays. Following Moody into the center of the room Harry was sizing the place up until Moody brought him back into focus.

Brandishing his wand, Moody said, "All training rooms have been warded to withstand nearly any magic forced against it. As you may have guessed, it took a pretty sickle to make it this way, so please feel free to give me your all, Potter."

"Yeah, sure," he said somewhat unintelligently.

"Now, first order of business: I want you to attack me as best as you can."

"Wh-What?" Harry asked dumbly. "Just attack you? Now?"

"Yes, boy. What'd you expect, boggarts and chocolate frogs? This isn't exactly a counseling session now is it?"

Moody's words hit home. Harry was now irate. Moody was obviously taking cheap shots at Professor Lupin and the brief training he received the past school year. He also began to wonder just how much Moody was told about his life.

Harry brandished his wand, visibly heated. He took a basic dueling stance and began sizing up his opponent. Seeing the vicious look on Moody's face, and his wild eye spinning dangerously, Harry was poised to move at a moments notice.

After a long beat, Moody's hand fired off a spell so fast Harry barely saw the wand movement at all. A pink-ish red curse rocketed towards his head but Harry slid out it's trajectory quickly. Two more spells, just as fast as the one before, shot in rapid succession. Dodging the first, the second fizzled on Harry's quickly erected golden shield.

Moody looked amused. "I see. You've honed your agility, eh? Well, how 'bout this then!" Moody unloaded with a steady stream of hexes, curses, and charms. He had Harry dodging and weaving nearly two minutes until the boy was sweating. "You like to move around a lot. While impressive, you must remember to shield yourself first and dodge second, only if you think the spell is more than you can swallow. You're a wizard, Harry, not a damned muggle."

That was quite unexpected. Professor Moody would be one of the last few people he would've expected to make such a bigoted comment. Too many people in the wizarding world looked upon muggles with contempt. They chose to see only the cons of muggle world without acknowledging the benefits. The world was changing around them, yet most magical folk chose to hold on to some misguided pretense of tradition. Wizarding kind would have to join the 21st century one day, why not sooner rather than later?

"Reducto!" Harry screamed. His hex crashed into the marble just before Moody, showing the ex-Auror in rocks and debris. The ground rumbled with the impact of another 'Reducto!', this one shattering Moody's wooden stump. Unable to keep his balance, the old man went sprawling onto his back almost comically. Before his wits were about him, there was a tennis shoe pressed down to on his throat, pinning him.

"And you, Professor, are too stationary. Perhaps loosing a few pounds around the middle would help with your footwork?" Harry felt a huge swell of pride wash over him. Here he was, a fourth year, besting an ex-Auror. Maybe the jab at the man's weight was a bit uncalled for, but boy did it feel good.

Mad Eye Moody, however, did not look pleased. "You cheeky bastard!"

With rejuvenated vigor the man screamed, "Loctare!" Harry's wand arm was overwhelmed with sudden pain and he unwilling dropped his wand. Moody 'Reparo'ed' his shatter stump within mere seconds. With a wave of his wand Harry was shot away viciously as if shot by a canon. Harry's rag doll body tumbled to a stop twenty feet away from Moody, were he lay panting for air.

Harry fought desperately to rise back to his feet, unwilling to give up just yet. He quickly swallowed the bile that rose up, blood rushing from his head, slightly dizzy. Pain shot through his arm as he used it to push himself upright. With clenched teeth, he stifled a groan that was fast to escape.

His glasses were nowhere to be found, rendering him half blind. With a hazy vision he could barely make out his holly wand two feet from Mad Eye.

"Never grow overconfident, lad. Finish the job and move on. Leave the rest for a Medi-witch to sort out, understood?"

Harry listened on, clutching his right arm which was still searing with pain, yet oddly bearable. His twitching fingers went unnoticed by Mad Eye, as did the wand that was gradually sliding towards him at a steady pace.

Harry had no pretense on wandless magic, only that it was rare, a lot like parseltongue. And if parseltongue was an ability exclusive to less than a handful of wizards, like wandless magic, then he knew he was more than likely capable of doing it also.

Harry was not an ordinary wizard, and he was slowly beginning to understand that fact. Something within him was too different, fundamentally different. A normal life would forever elude him. Danger always loomed his way, yet he always met it head on, and that would never change. He was chasing a dream of a "normal" life while the dreams of others were chasing him.

The holly wand jumped into Harry's outstretched left hand. Upon contact Harry erected a golden shield to block a swift hex from Moody. He could see the look of astonishment on the Auror face through the shimmering golden dome. Moody had not expected that.

Without his glasses, Harry's accuracy was shot, and they both knew it. Direct spell fire would get him nowhere at that point. Harry needed a high percentage spell, a spell that needed no real target, and a spell that would work by knowing just the target's general area. Unfortunately for Harry, he could count the number of high percentage spells he knew on one hand. This had better work. "Accio!" he cried.

With a fierce jerk, Moody was yanked towards the young green-eyed wizard. With a swift "Petrifcus Totalus", Moody was bound, and once again, found himself under the young wizard's sneaker.

"How was that then?" Harry asked, this time foregoing the bravado.

Mad Eye smiled wickedly despite his predicament, which didn't bode well at all for young Harry. "Not bad, lad. Just . . . one thing."

Harry, still in elation of his successes, failed to disarm his opponent. Looking down at the last moment, Harry met a 'Bombarda!' jinx head on, with his right eye.

Harry was set screaming bloody murder as the pain laced through his face. The body bind on Mad Eye broke and the old wizard was about again.

Stifling his pain took great effort, but Harry managed to focus once more. He glared wickedly at Moody, his right eye bloodshot and surrounding area badly bruised.

Moody jabbed his wand forward but Harry erected another golden dome in less than a second. Oddly enough no spell came high or low. 'A feint!' Harry realized, a bit too late.

A large object from training room walls was flying at him from behind, but by the time Harry noticed, it was already upon him. The boy was knocked unconscious on impact from a huge apparatus, but sustained no serious injuries.

"Amateur mistakes," Moody said, looking down at the battered and bruised boy. He himself was wheezing a bit, sweating nearly as much as Harry. "Not bad, Harry. Not bad at all."

Mad Eye Moody removed a silver hip-flask and took a swig of its contents, the disgust showing on his face.

"What are they feeding you kids these days?" he asked himself. "You're a decent enough wizard as it stands. Hopefully by the time I'm done with you, you'll be able to survive the next encounter with the Dark Lord. This is all I can do to help you."

Unbeknownst to the older wizard however, he had set forth a series of events that would more than prepare young Harry to "survive" an encounter with the Dark Lord. He would find the very means to fight back, and in the end, earn the title of The-Boy-Who-Lived.

'After this, my debt to you will be fulfilled, James.' 'Mad Eye Moody' thought. He levitated the unconscious body of Harry Potter out of the training room.

* * *

**Azkaban Prison**  
October 31st, 2000

Dusk.

The night had reclaimed Azkaban with the passing of the sun over the horizon. The stormy gray clouds above and frosty atmosphere told of an impending storm. The Prison's dark silhouette fell over the eastern shore allowing a clear path of shadows that lead directly to shore.

_That's my way off this rock. Instincts are kicking in full force now. Even the whispers agree._

_Slipping past the Order and Ministry wasn't as difficult as I thought. Vigilant lot, they are. Looking around, all I see are witches and wizards who're preoccupied tending their wounded and bidding final farewells to their fallen. Lucky for me the bulk of their forces have withdrawn into the prison itself._

_Voldemort's long gone. And if they think they'll take me back to that slam, then they'll have another thing coming. I'll die before I go back to that hellhole._

_Better not give these arseholes the chance._

_There's an unmanned boat just out of the immediate area of this island. Only 8 kilometers out, not too far._

_The sea below looks like it can swallow a man alive in mere seconds. The terror is there, under the anticipation, buried deep inside. The animal side is thrilled. 'S been a long time since I've felt this alive._

Harry gazed over a steep cliff, determination written across is face. He strolled back several paces, turned about, and sprinted towards the ledge as if he was shot from a canon. He launched himself high towards the heavens and at the apex of his leap he dove into the furious ocean below.

Once he resurfaced, his muscular limbs propelled him through the violent currents. The waves were a brutal obstacle to overcome, but he quickly learned that it was best to swim under them, lest he be pushed back to were he started. The sentient-like magic within Harry converted a small fraction of itself into needed stamina. After an hour of non-stop swimming against currents that could sink large ships, Harry made it to his destination.

Reaching the wooden vessel, Harry used one of the ropes hanging overboard to pull himself up onto the deck.

The ocean had washed away some of his previous dirt and grime. Harry now stood with poise, seemingly unfazed by the challenge of the sea. He schooled his breathing in seconds and his fatigue was washed away with the sudden downpour of rain.

Most would consider it suicide to attempt swimming in Azkaban's seas. One of the reasons the prison was built in such a location was to eliminate that very means of escape.

Harry undid the magical anchor of the ship and prepared for his departure. When he was ready to set sail a loud crack of apparition was heard behind him.

Turning around he found a haggard and rotund man, undoubtedly another Azkaban inmate. He was clutching his torso shivering, teeth clattering from the frosty night air, dark hair matted onto his head from the thundering rain. The overweight man's encrusted thin cloths brought him no warmth.

"Get off the boat," Harry growled.

"W-What?" asked the prisoner disbelievingly, eyes growing wide at Harry's demanding face and intense emerald eyes. "P-Pl-Please you gotta help me, mate! I'm an inmate, like you!"

"I don't give a fuck. They have magical trackers back there, I'm sure, and I guarantee that little stunt you just pulled triggered a few of 'em. Now get the fuck off this boat."

"Y-Y-You can't do that! They'll-" The plump man didn't get the chance to finish his sentence. Harry shot forward at the unfortunate man and dropped low at the last second. Harry slinked around and behind the man and wrapped his right arm snugly around his collar. With a simple tug of his shoulder Harry snapped his neck.

The limp body fell to the deck with a thud. "Now look what you made me do."

After he threw the body overboard, Harry looked to see if his dead friend had attracted any attention from the island. Sure enough, he could make out many small pricks of light coming from the tips of various wands. He was far enough away to tell that they couldn't distinguish his ship from the blackness of the night. Calculating his odds, he figured he only had about ten minutes to get the hell out of Dodge.

Harry moved to the back of the boat and aimed the open palm of his right hand at the ocean below. Instantly the ship began to move away from Azkaban as he pumped a steady stream of raw magic at the sea. Harry kept the amount of magic used to a bare minimum to avoid detection, though wandless magic was damn near untraceable except to the most intricate of magical trackers. If he maintained his current speed he would reach shore within a few days.

As the ship sailed through the storm, Harry formulated his next plan of action, knowing full well he'd have half of magical Britain after him.

_'I'll have to rejoin the 'civilized' world once again,' _he thought,_ 'After nearly five years of torment and solitude, they better be aware of the fact that I'm not the person I used to be. Hell, they better hope I don't ghost their backstabbin' asses.'_

Memories of people he once called friends plagued his mind. A cinnamon-haired,bookish young woman entered his thoughts.

_'Gotta find Hermione. She's as close to an ally as I'm likely to find, as well as the only person I know who can outwit the cleverest of men. If there was ever a chance of putting this war behind me, it's always been through her.'_

_'Hope she's still in the business of aiding escaped convicts.'_ Harry chuckled darkly.

* * *

**Author's Commentary**

* * *

And there you have it folks, the extremely overdue update. Chapter 3 is almost complete, so bare with me. With me being big into the arts scene, I've manage to find a few good images from around the net. These images just screamed to me; they truly belong in the LoW universe that I'm creating. I'm very envious of the people who created them because their talent is so profound, at least to me! My meager art skills are garbage compared to what I've found. You can check them out in my profile. If there are any broken links, please let me know.

-Afro


	3. Amazing Pain

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Lord of War**

**Chapter 3 ****– **Amazing Pain

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**Ministry of Magic, London**  
November 1st, 2000

Hermione Granger walked primly into the Ministry of Magic. The polished wooden floors glimmered under the light shining through the magical windows and fire on the ever roaring fireplaces.

Today the Ministry was packed more so than usual. Witches and wizards scurried along about their business and with quite a bit of chatter.

Hermione barely made it down to the ninth level of the Ministry of Magic before she was approached by one of her female colleagues, Hannah Abbot. The women had dark brown hair and looked rather plain even in comparison to the ordinary but shapely Hermione Granger.

"Morning, Hermione." Hannah could see her brown-haired friend looked rather at ease despite what was taking place in the wizarding world. "I take it you haven't read today's paper yet, have you?"

Hermione shook her head. "You know I don't read that rubbish. What is it today? More propaganda on how the Ministry is doing such a bang-up job catching known Death Eaters?"

When her friend frowned at her light-hearted joke Hermione figured it must have been something quite serious. "What is it, Hannah?"

"Here, I think you should take a look for yourself, Hermione." She had just made it to her office when Hermione took the said article from her friend's grasp. Opening it revealed an old photo of a long lost friend, Harry Potter. Despite being it being an animated photo, the 15-year-old Harry was near motionless and stoic, except for the occasional blinking of his eyes.

Under the black and white photo it read:

- - -

**Mass Casualties at Azkaban Prison and the Escape of Harry James Potter**

_In the bloodstained aftermath of the horror at Azkaban Prison, the Ministry of Magic pulls itself together and counts the numbers of lives lost, the amount of property destroyed and, most of all, tends to the scarred psyche of a ravaged nation._

_Evidence mounts that You-Know-Who -- the greatest Dark Lord to live in recent centuries – is suspected to have traveled across the Atlantic from the UK to wreak havoc on Azkaban, the once assumed well-fortified and unreachable prison. Little is known at this point as all Ministry officials who survived yesterday's ordeal remain tight-lipped. The MoM is not exactly keen on the matter of the investigation of yesterday's fierce battle. The Azkaban attack bore many trademarks of the extremist faction known as the Death Eaters, loyal followers of the fallen Dark Lord._

_Though the return of the Dark Lord is still a topic of much debate, one can only look at the evidence that proves this accusation could indeed hold true. Who are the Death Eaters rallying behind? If not the Dark Lord himself, who could holds such sway over these unrelenting terrorists?_

_The ever-present Order of the Phoenix is also known to be involved in said conflict, while many of its members still remain unknown. When asked to comment on the Order's helping hand in the conflict, Minister Scrimgeour had this to say about the vigilantes: "It is not the prerogative of this Ministry to cite or apprehend members of this vigilante group [The Order of the Phoenix], but rather accept the aid of an ally in a joint effort to capture all Death Eaters. While I certainly do not condone their actions, the Order has proven itself a reliable source of intelligence and a supply of competent wands."_

_Is it merely chance or prudent planning that the Dark Lord's arguably greatest enemy has gone missing?_

_Today Ministry intelligence sources publicly revealed that one Harry James Potter has not been accounted for amongst those dead or injured. Speculation suggests Potter, in fact, escaped from the island sometime during the battle. How he could manage such a feat is still a topic of debate. Apparition is neigh-impossible from the island because of its distance from any other body of land. Portkeys can be ruled out also, due to the ancient anti-portkey runes instilled onto the very island itself._

_The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been flooded with letters of outrage and panic. This is the second time, in the last decade alone; a prisoner has managed to escape-_

- - -

Hermione tore her eyes away from the article and reread the date. "This is today's paper," she stated unnecessarily. "This means. . ."

Before Hannah realized what was going on, Hermione was already out of the office and heading back to the Ministry lobby as quickly as she could.

Hermione grabbed a handful of floo powder before she entered the departing fireplace. With a few choice words and a blaze of green fire she was transported to the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"I was wondering when you would finally show up, Ms. Granger," said the aged, blue-eyed man who sat serenely behind his neat wooden desk.

"Then you know why I am here, Dumbledore," she exclaimed. "Tell me it's true. Tell me that Harry has escaped. You're hiding him, right? I want to see him!"

Dumbledore did not smile, and the twinkle that was so often present in his eyes never came. For a moment he looked every bit of his 152 years. This was a man who knew what drove powerful wizards to the edge of darkness, having once skirted the edge himself. He understood the skill and talent one must have, for he was renowned for it, and embraced it.

For years Dumbledore had tried to sculpt and mold the young boy into the next champion of the Light. His methods of doing so were unorthodox, unethical, and borderline-illegal. Sacrificing a part of his morality was a small price to pay. The wizarding world deserved a worthy champion, someone who could lead them into the future in ways he himself never could. In the end, he could not save his protégé from the disastrous situation of his imprisonment.

It was only a matter of time before he and Harry Potter crossed paths once more on the road of destiny. Two powerful men such as themselves would either become reluctant allies or sworn enemies. The choice was up to the wayward Potter.

"I'm afraid, Ms. Granger, that you have misunderstood the situation. I do not know the whereabouts of Harry at this moment. He had simply vanished from the island. The only consolation I have is that he was not captured by Voldemort, for I had a brief run-in with the Dark Lord myself, before he too departed. Harry is, if anything, a resourceful young man," Dumbledore said, offering the young witch a seat which she gladly took.

"Then you know what this means! He has to found before the Ministry captures him again!"

Dumbledore smiled gently "Which is why we will work together to find Mr. Potter."

She looked skeptical at that statement. She had learned long ago that people always had their own agendas, hidden or otherwise. "And what do you plan on doing with Harry if we find him?" she asked, "You and I both know that hell would freeze over before the Ministry would give him a proper trial. So what will you do?"

Hermione knew that with the deaths of Cedric Diggory and Barty Crouch Jr., his chances of a fair trial were nil. Amos Diggory was now the Head of Magical Law Enforcement with the promotion of Amelia Bones to Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, and Crouch Sr. was inducted into the Wizengamot. The now heirless Amos Diggory and Crouch Sr. would rather see Harry burn then allow him a just trial.

"Harry is an adult wizard. I'm certain that we can convince the Minister to allow the use of Veritaserum for the trial. With the political backing of the Order and your impressive work at the Department of Mysteries, we can back him into a corner where he'll have little choice in the matter."

"That will never happen, sir," Hermione said with a snort, "Harry and I are both thoroughly educated in magical Britain's penal system. He knows as well as I do that he will never be given a just trial with the current administration in office. There're too many grudges held against him in the Ministry; so many that he'd likely have more charges added to his already extensive criminal record. And that's not even considering how many toes he's stepped on in the Wizengamot."

Dumbledore was silent for several moments, contemplating. He needed Hermione on his side if he wanted to make contact with Harry. There were few people left in the world that Harry Potter trusted before his imprisonment, and he could not count himself on that list.. Dumbledore had no delusions however; he understood that Harry had lost nearly all confidence in him, and with his sentence in Azkaban, he doubted they would ever see eye to eye with one another ever again.

Harry had grown greatly unpredictable and enigmatic his last year at Hogwarts. So much so that he seemed an entirely different person. The only consistency was his friendship with Ms. Granger. Her persistence and loyalty was what Dumbledore counted on now. If Harry would not listen to him then perhaps it was wise to entrust in Hermione the secrets that needed to be relayed to Harry. Only 20 years old and she was already an Unspeakable in the Ministry. Her theories on magic helped not only the Order, but the wizarding world as a whole.

"The Ministry and Wizengamont are of little matter, Ms. Granger," he said, shocking the young witch. Dumbledore had forgone all delusions and was putting all of his cards on the table. "The reason we must find Harry is of greater importance then I could ever express. There are less than a handful of people alive who knows what Harry truly is. A secret I have not told another in many years. A secret I must tell you now."

Hermione had never seen the headmaster so solemn. His voice was barely above a whisper but she could him clearly as if he was speaking into her ear. His half lidded blue eyes were serene and void of that special twinkle.

"Tell me, Hermione. What are thoughts on prophecies?" Dumbledore asked.

**

* * *

**

**Location Unplottable  
**November 1st, 2000

Lord Voldemort stalked into his sanctum with a scowl plastered on his serpentine face, red eyes flashed with irritation. His anger was because of one person, Harry Potter.

The chamber was vast and eloquent, boasting a dark foreboding beauty fit for a Dark Lord. The furnishing was various shades of grays, blacks, and greens, with hints of reds spread about. The chamber glowed softly under the many floating candlelight, casting wandering shadows everywhere.

This was the main chamber of Lucius Malfoy's luxurious ancestral home. The Dark Lord had effectively begun to use it as the main hub for his inner circle dealings not only because of its dark beauty, but also because of the ancient, powerful wards and charms placed around the castle-like mansion. In this manor, no one had to worry about allies compromising the location, or enemies breaching the wards.

"Report, Lucius!" Voldemort barked from his exquisite throne.

Malfoy was currently the only person in the large chamber with Voldemort. Lucius Malfoy had slicked back, flawless blonde hair that reached just past his shoulders. His face was sharp and perfectly framed his family's trademark gray eyes. All other Death Eaters only had restricted access into his ancestral home unless the Dark Lord deemed otherwise.

"My Lord, the Ministry of Magic is in mass disarray as expected. They have taken a serious blow to their forces as well. Last head count on those who died on the island was about two hundred."

"What of the Order? Has there been word of Dumbledore's activities over the last few hours?" asked Voldemort.

"The Order has been tight-lipped since the attack. I presume they have been dealt a large blow to their forces as well and are still recuperating."

Voldemort didn't look pleased. He had spent five long years of lying low, building his army, and all the while allowing the people of the wizarding world to believe he was still dead. Now that Dumbledore had hard evidence to prove otherwise things were going to get more complicated.

"Step forward, Lucius."

Malfoy hesitated for a brief moment then proceeded up the green carpeted stairs to his master's throne. Voldemort took hold of his left arm firmly and shoved the sleeve of his expensive robes back revealing his pale skin and Dark Mark tattoo. Voldemort pressed his wand onto the Dark Mark and trickled magic into it. Lucius swallowed his pain, as he did not want to appear weak in such close proximity to his Lord.

The candles flickered noisily when a black cloud of smoke circled around the room before finally dieing down a few feet from the throne. Out of the smoke stepped a tired and visibly injured Bellatrix LeStrange who was clutching her wrapped shoulder.

"Milord," she greeted.

Voldemort could see the woman was in pain, but she hid it well. She was perhaps the strongest wand under his command and his staunchest supporter. Bellatrix's beauty and grace were plentiful, and her power was tempered only by her sociopathic tendencies.

Before the Dark Lord himself, she was regulated to the role of a common wand, begrudgedly accepted as elite. Pureblood witches were but vassals to breed the next generation of Lords and Ladies. Regardless of the mindset of her fellow purebloods, she had risen in both fame and notoriety on tenacity alone.

"Your report, Bella."

"W-We have sustained a moderate amount of deaths at Azkaban. We've lost a hundred or so people, half of which were only first timers. Eighteen were captured." Bellatrix ground her teeth angrily as pain shot through her shoulder; deep red blood from her wound soaked its white wrappings. "Not to mention the twenty three dead prisoners whom all of this was for."

Voldemort's eye twitched at that. Twenty three men were killed in the span of two minutes undetected. It was an impressive feat to say the least. Sure, he could accomplish the same task just as effectively, but that would be because of years of study and experience on his part. What did Potter have? Raw talent beyond anything he'd ever seen before.

_'_A worthy adversary, indeed,_'_ He thought to himself. 'It would be foolish to let his already substantial power to go unchecked. The boy needs to be dealt with, and soon. His skill barely scratches the surface of my own. But is it enough to defeat me?' The prophecy suggested Harry Potter was the one would have the power to defeat him. But without the full prophecy there was no way of knowing for sure. 'As it stands, he's too big a threat to be allowed to live.'

"My Lord, I've detained someone who I think you'll find quite . . . beneficial," Bellatrix said with intrigue.

"Oh? And did you forget the lessons I gave on thinking?"

Bellatrix bit her tongue. She lowered her head to hide the disdain she felt at that question. Her Lord often checked his Death Eaters, making sure they knew their place, never allowing them to become too overconfident, too overzealous. But she wanted to prove that she was so much more then a tool on his belt. She had an astounding amount of magical power that had most pureblood men green with envy. The only thing holding her back the foolish notion of tradition, and its concepts of what a woman should be in their constricted world. Purebloods were nothing without tradition.

Voldemort waved his hand callously for her to continue. "I've procured the alchemist Nicolas Flamel. The old fool was more then a handful after I dealt with Dumbledore's stooge, Mad Eye The alchemist is bound to the holding cells below. If I recall, you once mentioned an interest in some research the man was conducting. Forgive me if I am wrong, my Lord."

Both Death Eaters could see their master was indeed pleased with Bella's apprehension of the ancient alchemist. A small satisfactory grin adorned his wicked face.

"You have done well, both of you," he said dismissively. "I expect your full recovery in two days, Bellatrix. Lucius, I want you to run damage control on the setback at Azkaban. Inform our American brethren that I personally request an audience with all of the commanders. Be sure to inform them that this is but a momentary setback."

Bellatrix acknowledged his order with a curt nod. Before she apparated away, the Dark Lord stopped her, saying, "I want Flamel brought before me when he recovers. Have a full medical team put to his care. I need him in full health if he is to be of any use."

A moment later both Death Eaters apparated away and left the Dark Lord to his thoughts.

In the silence that followed Voldemort contemplated this older and greatly changed Harry Potter. He had known for quite some time that the boy held great potential. He even contemplated asking the boy to join him in his conquests. Such thoughts remained just that, though. Harry Potter was no more likely to join him than Dumbledore was to becoming the next Dark Lord. No, the only option was to eliminate the boy.

All those old rumors of Potter's skill were running through Voldemort's rattled mind. Something fundamental had changed the boy. Potter was not truly one with the light. What had changed, and how it came about, he did not know.

Voldemort supposed the mystery behind the enigmatic Harry Potter would forever be buried in the events of the past.

**

* * *

**

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland**  
November 10th, 1993

"Again!" a voice shouted angrily!

Alastor "Mad Eye" Moody stood poised in an advanced dueling stance. In front of him struggled a tired Harry Potter, panting, sweating and worse for wear. The boy was battered and bruised, sporting swollen lumps of red flesh, and fresh blood seeping from various open cuts.

"I think that'll be all for today, lad. We've been at this for hours. At this rate you'll be bed-ridden for a week," Moody placated.

"I don't care." Harry's voice was rough and scratchy. He rose shaking to one knee, wincing in pain. His clothes were all but torn to pieces, his chest and feet bare, only his trousers remained somewhat intact.

"What are you trying to prove, boy? The reason we're here – the reason I've decided to train you was so you would have a fighting chance of surviving this tournament. You've thrown yourself into this training beyond that any boy your age would dare, and that's commendable, to say the least. But I must insist we slow things down a bit."

"I don't care," Harry repeated. "Hit me again, Moody."

Moody could not comprehend what he was being told. "What are you getting at? I've been hexing you for the last three hours, as you've asked, and for what? What in Merlin's name are you trying to prove?"

Behind Harry's façade of annoyance lay hidden his ever growing cunning. On the outside, Harry was a battered, bruised, and annoyed mess, but within, he was grinning from ear to ear.

"My glasses," Harry began, still in visible pain.

"Glasses?" Moody asked.

"A few day's ago I realized they were affecting my vision. I didn't understand why at first. I was going to ask for a new pair until I realized something. My eyes . . . there was nothing wrong with them. I could see just as clearly with them off as I once did with them on."

Moody was silent, thinking. He never noticed before that Harry did not have on his glasses. The thick, black, round pair of Harry Potter glasses of his.

"I had the same look on my face that you have now. I didn't understand it either. That night you hit me with that Italian hex, the one that causes the muscles to seize"

"The Fimbromsy curse, yes. It tears down the muscles while regenerating them simultaneously. It's a very painful and dark curse. I wouldn't have used it if you didn't insist on using more lethal curses, Potter."

Harry waved him off. "That's beside the point. What I'm saying is that's when I first noticed it. I could hardly move the rest of the day after that curse. It felt as if my body was on fire. But during all of that pain, I noticed I could see things clearer; see details in things I never seen before. I began hearing things I never heard and I could even smell the sweat and grime from my body. I though I was going mad, until the pain stopped, and I still had these sensations."

Moody was taken aback. What he was hearing should have been impossible. Harry had come a long way in such a short amount of time. Few wizards could ever hope to be as naturally in tune with their body and magic as Harry was; himself included. And it was then that Mad Eye began to understand what set this young man apart from the rest of the lot.

He thought quickly then asked, "So you don't feel pain, even now?"

"No, the pain is still here. It always is. But at the same time I feel . . . more alert, aware of things. I feel . . . good." Harry's face, still contorted in pain, cracked a thin smile. He could see the fine red veins in Moody's real eye and the smooth marble-like magical eye that was locked on him.

Moody swiped his hip flask from his coat and took a long swig, smacking his lips from the strong taste of its contents. Harry's gazed remained focused on him.

"Firewhiskey, lad." Moody decided to explain for the first time. "Perhaps one of the few things that keeps my sanity these days."

Harry grimaced. "That's not firewhiskey."

"What?"

"Firewhiskey smells of peppermint schnapps, sugar, and muggle Brandi. My aunt drinks Brandi heavily, that's how I know the smell, and how I know that that isn't firewhiskey."

Surprised by Harry's accusing tone, Moody quickly responded, not missing a beat. "It would be best if I keep my medical complications private, Potter."

Harry accepted that. Whatever ailment that required Mad Eye to swig from his hipflask nearly every half hour was none of business, for now.

If anyone could understand the importance of privacy, it was certainly Harry. However, given the last few weeks spent training with the old man, Harry couldn't help but feel as if the Auror was slightly overestimated. Here was a veteran Auror who was quickly becoming surpassed, in terms of skill and power, by a 14-year-old boy. Harry surmised it was because of Moody's old age. That or the wizarding world was sorely lacking.

"Pain induced by the curses helps you develop these . . . senses then?" After a nod from Harry, then, "Never have I heard such a thing as this. I can't begin to imagine what this could possibly mean. Are the effects constant or do they fade away over time?"

Harry shook his head. "Like I said, it's improving over time. The more pain and the more I endure, the better I feel afterwards. Right now I feel like shite, but it'll fade soon, and I'll feel better tomorrow than I did this morning," Harry said.

"This morning I felt strong." Harry continued. "Stronger then I've ever felt. It's strange . . . I feel so aware of everything now. The lights, the sounds of the spells as they leave the wand, and even the metallic taste of my own blood. It's all much 'clearer' now than ever before."

"Have you noticed it?" Harry asked. "Either you're going easier on me as we go along, or you just can't keep up with me anymore."

Moody had noticed. Harry skill was growing each day. His control with his magic was approaching flawless. Harry's physique had filled in quite a bit during the weeks of training. He had put on quite a few pounds, almost all muscle. Though slightly short for his age, his body was well built; a lean, flexible frame of muscle and power.

Moody had taken notice of Harry's new confidence and thirst for knowledge. Though still a humble young man, Harry had also developed a passion to prove himself to others. The Gryffindor qualities were fading away and in their place were those of a Slytherin. Moody always came up with some reason why Harry could not participate in the practical portions of Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Young Malfoy and Potter had formed some sort of bizarre truce between themselves. Though he could see veiled animosity they held for one another underneath their apathy. Moody would have to keep watch on the two lest Harry did something he would regret. His skill was well beyond that of the Malfoy heir.

Harry had already covered Defense, Charms, Transfiguration, and Dark Arts over the last few weeks in limbo time. Harry could very well best any seventh-year with all he knew now. His silent spell casting was coming along nicely as was his knowledge of Arithmancy and Runes.

Harry focused almost exclusively on spells that were useful on the battlefield. Such spells were rare in the standard Hogwarts curriculum. Moody had to acquire text from other magical institutions such as Salem, Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and Galileo. All proved to be slightly beneficial in their own right.

While Harry did not know some of the basic spells that wizards used daily, he supposed learning such spells would prove useless and counterproductive of their 'limited' time.

"Yes, I have noticed," he agreed. "You attribute this to your theory?"

"Yes. I just proved that today. My senses and control are getting better but I feel it's peaking. I'm growing too comfortable with these curses."

"Comfortable?" Moody gawked.

"The first time I was hit with that curse –Fimbromsy, I thought my skin was burning off from the inside out. It felt like hell. The day afterwards, when I regained consciousness, I felt better; though still numb from the pain. Yesterday I stayed conscious through the curse, in spite of the pain. Today, I'm still alert and coherent only minutes after the curse has been lifted." Harry said.

"I'm adapting to it, you see. I need something different – something more- that'll push me," Harry said.

Moody thought carefully before coming to a decision. "So the muscle searing curse dose not hurt as much as it once did a few days ago, and now you need a more potent curse to somehow kick your magic into building your physical senses?" Moody asked rhetorically.

"Exactly . . ."

"Then there's only one curse that'll give you what you're looking for." Moody grinned wickedly.

Harry knew the curse Moody was getting at. It was a few weeks before, only a few days real time, which Moody had showed the fourth years the Unforgivable Curses. The curse at hand had made many of his classmates cringe as they witnessed a large spider tortured before their eyes. Hermione had seethed at the barbarity of it all while Neville Longbottom looked tormented by the whole ordeal.

"The Cruciatus curse?" Harry smiled back.

Harry had, of course, also come to this conclusion. It was his idea from the start. Making the ex-Auror believe it was his idea was not a complicated matter. The effortlessness of it all was almost baffling to the young wizard in training.

Having trained with Mad Eye over the last few weeks gave Harry a close look inside the man's personality. What Harry had come to find was that Mad Eye Moody was, if anything, a passionate and driven man, but also very simpleminded. He often did not comprehend many of the spells Harry studied, choosing to drill mostly dark arts spells.

For an ex-Auror Moody was disturbingly limited to standard spells, dark arts, and transfiguration, all of which were not fundamental courses taught at the British Auror Academy. Most spells Moody taught Harry were rather vicious and unsavory. Harry attributed this to Moody's notoriety as a ruthless Auror.

Mad Eye would often leave Harry alone to train. What Moody did during these times he had yet to find out. It was evident Moody was brewing potions, if the putrid smell of coal and ember was anything to go by. Perhaps it was the concoction Moody took a swig at every half hour or so.

"If you really want to go through with this, lad, I'll not deny you. But be mindful of what you're asking for. The Cruciatus is not a curse to be taken lightly."

"Thanks for the warning," he replied sarcastically.

Harry stretched his limbs as Moody prepared himself to fire the curse. The lingering pain from the Fimbromsy curse was all but forgotten.

This was it. Harry would finally put to test his strange magic.

His heart quickened in anxious anticipation of the torture curse. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Harry felt a vague sense of fear. Harry tore a shred of cloth from his tattered shirt and placed it into his mouth as a gag."

As Moody's wand arm pulled back gathering magical energy, Harry began nervously using rudimentary breathing techniques, similar to those taught to women in labor. As Harry inhaled and exhaled loudly, Moody swung his arm wide, sending the sickly yellow curse directly at Harry's chest.

Harry was swept off his feet by the sheer power of the curse; his head impacted the ground with a thud, and he unfortunately remained conscious.

His howls of pain surprised his teacher. Moody looked on in mixed fascination and horror as it dawned on him that he was torturing the Harry Potter. It had been such a long time since the older man had witnessed such raw human emotion.

Outside the room, up and out into real-time, the magical trunk sat discretely in Mad Eye's dark office. The screams that filled the inside of the trunk went unheard during the brief few seconds they lasted.

The inhabitants of Hogwarts slept soundly that night while their Chosen One endured a small portion of hell for them.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY**

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Story is still building up speed. I'm trying my best to move beyond the imprisonment and straight to post-Azkaban Harry. Next chapter I'll bring in more characters. Moody and Harry training would get stale and boring if I went into and explained everything Harry learned.

Also, a note to Draco haters, I hope you are up to reading a competent Draco Malfoy. He's a character, I feel, has massive potential as a major player in the world of Harry Potter. Too many authors squander this on petty things that distracts from what I think his character represents in canon; the complete opposite of Harry Potter. Draco is to Harry what Lex Luthor is to Superman, the Joker to Batman, Vegita to Goku, Sasuke to Naruto, or Agent Smith to Neo. Take your pick. Anyways, until next time . . .

-Afro

P.S. Image links in profile has been fixed.


	4. Come and Go Room

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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**Lord of War**

**Chapter 4 ****– Come and Go Room**

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**Hogwarts  
November 17th, 1993**

"Harry, wait!"

Turning around Harry spotted his long time friend Hermione Granger. Unlike nearly every student at Hogwarts, she was one of the few who believed him about not wanting to participate in the Triwizards Tournament. Above all else, Harry appreciated Hermione's faith in him.

Finally at his side, they headed towards the Grand Hall together. "Where have you been all morning? I was waiting for you in charms and Divinations."

"Busy schedule," was all Harry said.

"Dumbledore?" she asked quietly, but she received no response. Unheeded she continued, "Everyone's noticed that you've been doing well in DADA. In fact, you've been doing quite well in every class recently . . . bored even."

A thin smirk graced Harry's face. His knowledge and skills in the magical arts had double in just over two weeks real-time. Having already spent months in time shifts, his control had improved by leaps and bounds.

"And you look . . . excellent "she rambled. "I, er –what I mean to say is _healthier_." Hermione's face was red with embarrassment from her slip-up. She was looking questionably at his torso and arms. "What _have_ you been eating, Harry?"

"Balanced meals, Hermione."

She was displeased with that answer. "Harry! I know you've been doing something or another behind the scenes. If it's something you can't tell me, then just say so."

Harry thought about telling her the truth despite Moody's warning. Hermione was more than capable of keeping his secret, not to mention it make his life easier by not having to dodge the watchful eye of his best friend.

The first month in limbo time he'd learned every spell in the 7 year Hogwarts curriculum; or at least the theory behind them. After that however, the Cruciatus curse came into play.

Pain was a great teacher, it proved. With pain came clarity. With clarity came control. And with control came confidence in both self and magic.

Moody still had no theory behind the phenomenon of Harry's rapid increase of skill by the induction of pain. But the old ex-Auror did his part. He'd taught Harry nearly every dark and illegal spell he knew, which surprisingly, was a relatively small amount.

The Moody he read of in the Auror training manuals was said to not have only known many illegal spells, but to have implemented special tactics and ideas specifically designed for the capture and/or killing criminal wizards. His knowledge of the Dark Arts were said to surpass most Dark Wizards themselves.

Maybe old Mad Eye Moody was holding back on him?

"I've been learning, and, as you can see, it involves allot of physical training. Can't tell you exactly who I've been learning from. But, know this it isn't just because of some rubbish tournament. The training is to help me survive events far worse then school activities," he said.

"_Him_?" she questioned, alluding to the Dark Lord.

"You think I'm mad, don't you?"

"No, I think it's sad, Harry. You've had enough difficulty being the Boy-Who-Lived as it was. First the philosophers' stone, to the chamber of secrets, to nearly loosing your Godfather, and now this tournament. Now you're telling me that you're training to take on a Dark Lord? I think it's horrid. Why must all of this fall on your shoulders?"

Harry empathized with her, but she was preaching to the choir. "A question I ask myself everyday."

"Are you so certain he'll come back?"

"The Greatest Dark Lord in centuries," Harry stated Voldemort's renowned title. He fixed Hermione with a hard look. "Do you really think this world has seen the last of Voldemort?" The mention of the Dark Lord's name caused Hermione to flinch.

Harry could not help feeling pity for Hermione's innocence. She had such a rigid way of thinking. If she knew he was learning the Dark Arts, she would surly disapprove. She would not understand his need to learn the Dark Arts.

"Well, if it isn't Pot-Head. Keeping his Mudblood company I see," said a voice from behind Harry.

Harry didn't have to turn around to know he'd been blessed with the presence of Malfoy. He could smell the stench of Draco's cologne. Judging from the heated look in Hermione's brown eyes at the name she'd just been called, he knew he had to act fast, before _she_ did something rash. He was sure Malfoy would not tolerate being punched in the face again like the previous year.

"Malfoy," Harry acknowledged, facing the haughty blond.

On the boy's chest was a magically charmed button that displayed Harry's face, headlined with the words, 'Potter Sinks!' Malfoy smirked as Harry looked at it.

Rumors around Hogwarts suggested Harry was undergoing some sort of training, or at least, receiving special lessons. Draco often paid Hogwarts' rumor mill little heed. However, looking at Potter, it was all he could do to realize the changes in the Gryffindor. Maybe the rumors were true after all.

Harry looked bigger and seemed healthier. He seemed more certain; arrogant, even?

Gone was the reluctant and brash young man, and in its place was someone new, someone unknown to Draco. This Harry intrigued him.

Draco stepped closer, well within Harry's private space, were only Granger could overhear. Harry didn't so much as flinch, but Draco could have sworn he'd see his body coil. "Honestly Potter, you've disturbed the natural order of this tournament. You even the 'Puffs are looking for payback for stealing their Champion's "glory". You'll have more to look out for this year then just us Slytherins."

"Your point?" Harry asked.

"I would suggest you keep the few friends that you have, on a leash." He eyes Hermione for the first time. "We don't want anyone getting hurt."

"Speak for yourself," Harry replied with a wicked smile of his own.

"Touché," Draco said.

With that he departed, waving to his two goons to follow. Harry and Hermione watched them enter the Great Hall handing buttons to everyone he passed.

Instead of going to the Great Hall himself, Harry took an immediate right turn, heading towards the dungeons. Hermione was a bit surprised by this, seeing as they didn't have Potions class scheduled that day.

"Where are we going, Harry?" she asked

Harry stopped. "_I_ need to check on a few things in the dungeons."

His emphasis of 'I' was not lost on her. She looked disappointed. Hurt. "Just be careful."

Harry wasn't sure if he should be thankful that she wasn't being he usual self and insisting that she go along. That surprised him.

"I guess some things do change, Hermione."

At that moment they both heard shouts and a commotion coming from the entrance of the Great Hall. The cause of the ruckus was none other than their one time best friend, Ron Weasley. The boy was red-faced and shouting profanities at Draco Malfoy. The blond looked quite pleased with himself. His daily quota of pissing off Gryffindors was finally satisfied.

Shaking her head with a half smile, Hermione said, "And some things never do."

* * *

A dark sky . . . and in the foreground, stood a tall blond-haired young man, profiled against the full moon, his pale face watching the heavens with piecing grey eyes.

Surrounding him was the silence of the night. He sat alone, as he'd come to do often, in the empty stands of the Quiddich pitch. It was one of the few places that allowed him to contemplate his thoughts without the interference of his Slytherin housemates. The life of Pureblood wizard wasn't all it cracked up to be.

For all the power and influence Draco Malfoy inherited, he couldn't help but feel as if it was not enough. He was the heir of one of the greatest families Britain and yet his life was filled with one mundane occurrence after another. People should fear and respect his name, but all he received was veiled mockery and contempt.

It was easy to blame the current Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, for the lack of respect the students showed Purebloods. And by extension, Harry Potter was also to blame, for it was him that instilled the audacity in others.

Potter was the center and foundation of his scorn.

Every year Potter was gaining more admiration and respect amongst his peers. Even with the fiasco of the Triwizards Tournament Draco knew and understood that it was only a matter of time before the students accepted him back into their good graces. It was hard to miss the endearing qualities Potter naturally possesses.

The green-eyed fool had undergone some sort of change recently; that much was blatantly evident. He carried himself differently, with a confidence and poise a Pureblood wizard would be proud of. A change that drastic could only mean one thing: training, or more specifically, the Dark Arts.

The Dark Arts branch of magic was often a misunderstood and vague form of magic, made even more so by recent Ministry administrations.

Contrary to popular belief, learning the intricacies of the Dark Arts took substantial will, power, and patience to fully control. If one were to trounce their way into that branch of magic their magic would change in the worse ways possible, corrupting their very soul and making their life a ghastly parody of its former self.

Few witches and wizards saw little need to delve heavily into the Dark Arts, not when the price was their sanity. Only an exceptionally powerful wizard could overcome the ravages the Dark Arts forces on the soul. The greatest byproduct of that feat being the Dark Lord, who not only wielded the monstrous power of the Dark Arts, but also maintained his cunning and wit.

Draco's earlier encounter with Potter was enlightening. Like the rest of the school, he was witness to the changes of Potter over the last several weeks. No longer was he a thin, roguish looking boy. He had fill in quite a bit over the last few weeks. Not to mention the added muscle and weight Harry gained. Physical strength was not something witches and wizards usually admired in their celebrities, but the Gryffindor golden-boy won the hearts of even more witches with the added mass.

It was common knowledge that all then champions were receiving training for the upcoming events, though the rules forbade it. But the top three magical schools in Europe weren't anything if not extremely competitive. They would not pass up a chance to pilfer esteem the other schools because of some silly ancient rules.

How far would Potter go to obtain his power, and more importantly, who was training him? Dumbledore, the old mudblood loving fool would no sooner cast an unforgivable than teach a student the Dark Arts. Whoever it was, they were certainly doing a good enough job. Potter was indeed becoming more physically imposing.

Draco frowned he was still weary of the Dark Art and its corruption. He hated to though of not being in control of his emotions and becoming some beastly, mindless fool with power. He had only to look at his dear aunt Bellatrix to see the results of fear.

Growing cold in the late-night November breeze, he made his way back to the castle. As he cut across the field between the castle and pitch, Draco noticed the storm cloud gathering overhead. He made it through the large doors of Hogwarts entrance just as sprinkles of rainfall began.

On his way to the dungeons Draco ran into a intriguing sight. Both of his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, towered over a small figure curled against the stone walls.

"And what's going on here?" Draco caught his two goons by surprise.

"Zachariah Niles caught this little shite wondering the halls past his bed time," Crabbed snickered.

"Yeah, we had him leave the Gryff to us so he could finish his patrol." Goyle, the larger and dumber Pureblood heir grabbed the sniffling boy by the hair and yanked his face into view.

Draco saw that it was Dennis Creevy, a small, mousy third year Gryffindor. His face was red and he sported a wicked black right eye.

"You wanna have a go at him, Draco?" Goyle asked.

Draco sneered at his fellow Slytherins. Those all too familiar thoughts were surfacing in his head; he was surrounded by idiots. Grabbe and Goyle didn't even have their wands drawn, instead resorting to physically assaulting the Gryffindor. Such was not the proper way a Pureblood handled causing pain.

'Are we wizards, or are we bloody muggles?' Draco thought to himself. It was a lesson he'd been trying to instill in the two buffoons before him.

"Step aside you idiots. And heal those knuckles!" Draco said, unsheathing his wand.

Pointing his wand at the smaller boy, Draco spoke harshly, "Stand up, boy!"

Through a black eye and a slightly swollen lip, Dennis barked back, "Piss off!"

Ah, so the boy still had some fight in him then. Gryffindors always proved to be the feistier and most resistant victims of their little late night 'games'. In and around the dungeons there were no magical portraits to witness their hazing of other students.

In the blink of an eye Crabbe had moved in swiftly and kicked the downed boy solidly in the gut. Solid boot connected with soft skin with a thud. Dennis was left clutching his ribs.

Sighing irritably, Draco rubbed the stress from his aching temples. "Crabbe, will you _please_ unsheathe your wand. If don't actually use magic you'll never get better. In the end, would you be any better then this mudblood?"

Crabbe flushed stupidly and unsheathed his own wand along with Goyle.

With a flick of his wand Draco had Dennis hovering vertically a few inches from the marble floor. The younger boy was torn between fear and wavering bravery. If only he had kept his wand on his person instead of in his sack on the floor beneath him.

"Listen, it's past one in the morning and I don't have the time to deal with mudbloods at this ungodly hour. What I need you to do is pass on a few words to the head lion in your little den. Tell him, before this school year is over, he'll have more to fear then trolls, basilisks, and Dementors. Things are going to change around here, and soon, Draco said.

A voice, low and yet resounding, echoes through the corridors soon after Draco's threat. "Why don't you relay that message," the voiced started, and out stepped the green-eyed Gryffindor from the shadows, "to the king of the jungle himself?"

Draco was taken aback by Harry's sudden appearance. All wands were then trained on him as he began to walk down the corridor. Dennis falls to the floor unceremoniously.

Stepping close to the still surprised Draco, Harry said, "Threatened twice in the same day." That arrogant smirk of Harry was beginning to engrave itself in Draco's mind, annoyingly. "Someone's looking for a fight."

Draco snarled at the pretentious Potter, and with a nod both Crabbe and Goyle charged at Harry, wands in hand. They seemed to never learn.

Once Crabbe was well within Harry's striking range he was stuck in the throat faster then he could follow. Goyle came around a second later but Harry sidestepped his haymaker and tripped the two-hundred pound boy with ease. Harry dropped his knee on the boy's chest, pinning him to the floor.

Malfoy looked from the gagging Crabbed to the pinned Goyle, then to Harry, dumbfounded. Harry managed to subdue two oversized teenagers in the matter of seconds with drawing his wand or breaking a sweat. In his mind, he was still trying to digest what he just saw,

Harry broke him from his reverie. "I would suggest you keep the few friends you have, on a leash," he said. Harry dug his knee painfully into Goyle's chest before standing. "We don't want anyone getting hurt."

Draco was turning red with anger. Fool. He was being made a fool of.

"You don't wanna –"

Before Harry could finish a purple spell was soaring at him. He managed to move out of the flight path of the spell at the last possible moment but was still nicked by the cutting charm just below his shoulder.

Draco took satisfaction in seeing Potter's blood rolling down his arm. The cut wasn't very deep, little more than a flesh wound, but it was a deep enough cut non-the-less.

Harry looked on in a mixture of surprise and fury at his wound. Surprise, because he didn't expect Draco's casting to be so fast. It was a quicker then he remember it being in the Dueling club their second year. And Harry was pissed because his two months all out training was proving to mean nothing if the likes of Malfoy still posed a threat.

His eyes burned as he glared at the smug Malfoy. In a second Harry was behind the blond and placed a vicious kick to the back of his knee. Draco topple down and felt a boot placed on his head before the effect of a 'Petrificous Totalus' washed over him.

"This time I'll let you off with a warning. Bother another lion again, and you and your cronies won't be so lucky next time. Got me?"

Malfoy could not properly respond due to his motor functions being temporarily cut off from Harry's charm, but his grey eyes still glared hatefully. Harry pressed his boot harder onto Draco's ear, smashing his head onto the marble floor.

Harry relented. He moved away from the furious Malfoy after placing body binds on Crabbe and Goyle also. He then swatted his hands together as if dusting them off from a long days work. But as he began to walk away he stopped abruptly.

Harry turned around at spoke to the baffled Dennis Creevy. "Unless you want to keep them company tonight . . ." He waved with a hand for the younger boy to join him.

Dennis immediately grabbed his bag and hobbled over to join Harry. Together they departed, leaving the petrified Slytherins alone in the dark corridor.

* * *

Harry and Dennis navigated through the halls without attractive attentions from the roving Prefects, thanks to the Marauder's Map. Dennis had raised many questions about the useful map as looked at it besides Harry.

He was still getting used to being so close to the celebrity that was Harry Potter. Between the one-sided fight he had recently witnessed and the stories of the Dark Lord's downfall his brother Collin had told him, Dennis was in awe.

To Dennis, it was as if Harry was from a different planet. It was just impossible for one human to be both that wicked and freighting at the same time. He wondered what Harry would do to other students if he were to toe-to-toe in a dueling match. Seventh years would crumble just as surely as Malfoy did. If only other people were there to see what he had seen. His brother was going to freak when he told him!

In his excitement, Dennis had nearly forgotten about his bruised ribs. With each step they the pain grew more and more excruciating. Soon, he stared to fall behind Harry until the older boy stopped to asses the damage.

"Here, lean against the wall." He beckoned the Dennis. "Lift your shirt so I can take a look. Believe me; you don't want to wake Madam Promfrey at this ungodly hour."

Dennis did as he was told and lifted his shirt. They found his wounds were more serious then either of them would have thought. A rather large area of swelling was a vivid read and a leaking blood out of a nearby cut.

Harry aimed his wand at the wound and silently cast the only healing spell he knew.

"ARRG!" Dennis yelped in pain. "Bloody hell, what was that, Harry?"

"It's the only healing spell I know. Never tried it on a living subject before."

Dennis looked brassed-off, rethinking his earlier assessment of 'cool-Harry'. "Well I'm not a bloody specimen! And you're healing is rubbish!"

'Everyone's a critic,' Harry thought. He wondered what he should do then. If they went to Madam Promfrey she would demand an account of what happed to young Dennis. The standard "fell down a flight of stairs" wouldn't work since the bruises were very indicative of physical assault.

"Looks like you're going to have to suck it up until we reach the tower," Harry stated.

"But I can barely move as it is," Dennis whined. "Merlin, I wish I just had a little balm to sooth the bruising."

Harry stepped back alarmed as he saw the wall behind Dennis start to move pictures and ornaments aside then began to . . . dissolve? Dennis was perturbed by the curious face Harry assumed. He yelped and scampered away from the wall he'd been leaning against as he saw for himself the wall dissolving like magical sand.

In moments the dissolving stopped and what remained was a large obsidian door with intricate designs, complete with an extravagant doorknob.

Harry ran a few diagnostic spells over the strange door before opening it. He and Dennis stepped inside and were surprised by what they found inside.

All around the huge room were various vial of potions, and even what appeared to be muggle medical supplies and equipment. On the shelf directly to their right was a vial of "Healing Balm." Dennis manage to hobble over to the shelf and pick up the vial for closer examination.

"No way!" he breathed. Then looking around the room he said, "This can't be what I think it is!"

"And that would be . . . ?"

"Neville was told us once that he came across a room that appeared from nowhere when he was in great need of it. He could never find the room again, but he called it "The Come and Go Room". If I remember correctly, Neville said it literally provided everything he asked for."

Harry frowned skeptically. If such a room existed inside the school it would not have remained a secret for long. If he could just wish up a short Dragon toothed blade it would have . . . wait a minute.

A new weight was added to Harry's waistline and, looking down, he found a perfectly crafted dragon toothed ceremonial blade sheathed inside of the crimson dragon-skinned sheath. Harry could not believe what he was seeing. It was exactly as it saw it in the Auror's Training Manual. With a few twist and fancy flips around his palm, he decided it was the perfect weight.

"Woah, what's that?" Dennis asked, intrigued by the dagger Harry expertly wielded.

"A business tool," he said. He sheathed the blade with a final flourish. "What's that?"

Dennis turned red and quickly hid his sheet of paper behind his back. He looked coyly at Harry, clearly embarrassed about something. Harry summoned the paper wandlessly and was surprised to find a stark naked and grinning Cho Chang in a rather intriguing position. It seemed that even second years were smitten with the oriental witch.

"Not bad, kid." Harry could imagine Cho in better positions then that however.

"Well I kind of got carried away with the whole "whatever you ask for" bit. I wished for her to be here, in, umm . . . naked, but all I got was this picture."

That was . . . revealing. Now Harry could understand exactly why the room was hidden. Question was, did the staff know about the room, or were they ignorant as well. Odds were, at least Dumbledore knew.

Harry watched Dennis apply the healing balm to his wounds making sure the substance didn't have any ill effects. The younger boy said the pain was nearly gone, he could move almost unimpeded with flinching, thought his wounds would take time and rest to heal.

Harry moved about the room, wishing many of the medical supplies away, and replacing them with various weapons and tools he could every possible use for training.

A large metal shelf materialized, stacked to the brim with muggle firearms. Harry plucked a standard 9mm automatic and examined it. The roomed stretched and elongated, and at the very end of the room were several wooden dummies. Harry aimed and unleaded a full clip. His aim wasn't as good with the firearm as it was with his wand, or just his palm. But practice would make perfect.

Dennis grabbed a handgun of his own, ready to fire like Harry. Before he could get off a shot however, the gun was summoned out of the twelve-year-old's hand and into Harry's.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" Harry asked.

"Come on, Harry! I found this place too!" Dennis pleaded. He was excided by guns Harry had wished up. He was beginning to like Harry's style. Where he would have just wished up more . . . pleasing things the room could provide, Harry was already preparing for one his great adventures!

"One condition," Harry said. Dennis nodded his head, already accepting whatever terms Harry would stipulate. "You speak of this to no one. Not your brother, not the professors, not the students, and defiantly not your parents. Understood?"

He answered with an eager "Got it!" and Harry sighed. He had to review the Memory charm soon, just in case Dennis proved in any way he was unable to keep his word.

Dennis quickly grabbed another gun and got all set up, ready to fire for the first time, however, the gun dissolved in his hands.

"What?" he asked stupidly.

The roomed took on a complete change in décor. Gone was the gun racks, various training equipment, and medial equipment. Everything vanished from the room. The light, which were a once soft candle light, were also gone. The ceiling took on the form the ceiling had in the Great Hall. Dennis could see the dark clouds and thundering sky above. The room was so dark he could bare make out Harry who was standing in front of him.

The change was so unexpected that Dennis was caught completely unprepared. For the second time that night Dennis felt dread creep up his spine.

"Don't panic, kid." Harry said in complete calm. "Think happy thoughts, and stay back."

"W-What?" Happy thought? What in the bloody hell was that suppose to mean? The only reason a witch or wizards had to focus on happy thought was only when . . .

The temperature continued to drop drastically to point were Dennis was left freezing on the cold marble floor.

With a crash, three Dementors burst through a door at the opposite end of the room and advanced on the pair. Dennis stared in complete horror at the other Gryffindor. Harry had to be completely mad to wish up Dementors! He wanted to run, run from certain death, but all he could do was shutter in fear, his teeth rattling loudly.

Dennis' happy thought was the naked Cho Chang.

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**AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY**

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Sorry for the late chapter this time around. Updates should improve now that I'm back in the U.S.


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